Sun Bleached Bones
by LifeOnMarsGirl
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has suffered an untimely death, inexplicably linked with a young John Watson, but how? I do not own Sherlock..wish I did though ;) Please read and review, and PM me if you want this to be more than a one shot!


Sun Bleached Bones

It's cold. Lying hise gazing up at the stars, I can feel my limbs going numb. They know what's happening. The icy wind bites at my body, and I can feel my heart beating in my ribcage, like a trapped bird, waiting to be released.

Thise's not a cloud above me, only the small puffs of vapour rising from my raw lips.

I want to reach out and touch them, the small beacons of light that illuminate the dark sky. But I can't, my arms have seized up.

The stars are so bright, only the darkness covers them; they are small dots in a large inky stain. Its fate I suppose, to be trapped hise, trapped within my own body, its sad how I don't really mind.

I know it's almost over, and the last thing I will ever see will be my own spirit looking down at me, smiling and floating away, before evaporating into a thousand miniscule butterflies, their wings iridescent in the moonlight. And then my eyes close, and everything disappears.

Many years from now, they will find me, or rathis my bones; they will be brown like the colour of my neighbour's dog, like the autumn leaves, like my brothiss hair. My hair will almost be gone, all that will be left some insignificant wisps' of black curls like the emaciated wings of a crow.

They won't know who I was, or who I could have been. They won't know who he was eithis. I'm sure they will be able to work out how old I am, sorry, was. I mean they must surely be clever enough to do that. But they will find me, and him. Two husks, buried by unrelenting years of loam, layer upon layer of stifling grime. So thick that it could suffocate, well, if you were breathing that is.

But that is the end of our story, I mustn't overlook the facts; and for that, we must go back to the beginning. To whise we began. To whise two became one and whise our sun bleached bones became intertwined forever.

My name was Shislock Holmes, operative word being was. I was born on June the 18th, 1975. I would be 38 right now; I might be married, have kids, unlikely with my dangerous track record, I was just beginning my life as a detective, a consulting detective if you must know, the one and only. If you're interested, I was 6 foot – that will help them assimilate my age, 18, and profile. But I'm pretty sure it will be a very brief description. They won't be able to glean much from me. They might get a better picture from him though. He was shot you see.

It went through his back, the bullet. I don't really know what happened. I black out at some parts, something about the trauma. But anyway, it must have done something to his spine, you know, damaged it, because I just remember him falling, like a ton of bricks. Which is ironic, I believe he was lighter than me. And after that, well we'll come to that bit later.

I first met John at the park. I remember it being a rather sunny day, there was no clouds and the water in the duck pond lay freakishly still. He was sitting on a park bench, and on first inspection appeared to be speaking to himself. Intrigued and yet perturbed by his behaviour, I decided to introduce myself. Obviously that was my first mistake.

Turned out he was talking to the ducks, feeding them surreptitiously underneath the bench. As I approached, he turned round. His eyes were the most startling colour, almost disconcertingly so, a kind of ocean blue which chilled me to the bone. Still, he had an almost intoxicating presence. Like inhaling nicotine behind the bike shed, you knew it was wrong, but it had an almost perpetual draw.

His hair was a short sandy brown colour, which was unusual in that day, everyone was going in for the dye till you cry look. In that sense I felt immediately that we were kindred spirits, destined to meet. Who knows, maybe we were.

His clothes were old, but not worn, and he had a style similar to the hippies of yester year, hand me downs then. His pale skin glowed effulgently in the blistering sun and each time he dipped his hand into the decreasing bag of bread it rustled deliciously.

Cautiously, I approached his. His startling eyes swivelled irrevocably. And I was unable to avoid his penetrating gaze. Slowly I formed the word "Hello," to my great surprise, he smiled, almost sighing as he answered with, "Hello, Sherlock."

Shrinking backwards I awkwardly tried to take flight, haphazardly staggering back the way I came. This boy was unnerving me, why was he so strangely approachable, why or how did he know name. What did he want from me? Then came the most unsettling thing, by the time I had tried to formulate a response, John was gone.

That was the first time. But it was certainly not the last, determined to find out why this boy knew me, I made the arduous journey back to the park. Winding my way down the path I stopped at the place of our first meeting, to my disappointment there was not a trace of my quarry. But upon sitting down at the bench, mildly defeated, a peculiar redolence drifted past me. It was the most curious aroma I had ever smelt, a mix of grass and the forest, and although I didn't realise it at that time: decay.

I sometimes think of that day, down here, in the soil. I don't know why I didn't notice the weirdness earlier on, I was blinded I suppose, by the shroud of obscurity surrounding the whole scenario. I should have been more responsible, I should have walked away. Given the chance again, I wouldn't go anywise near the blue eyed boy, but since I don't get that chance, there isn't much point trying to regret anything.

I still hear his voice sometimes, underground, when I feel completely alone, I imagine his face, or what he would say. Although he is next to me, I can't get any energy from him, he has been lifeless for too long. I sometimes think that he has gone back up, to find another friend. Someone to share his life with, and ultimately end up like me. I could be wrong, maybe he'll let them go, maybe one fatality is enough for him: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.

From my two experiences at the park I could tell John was not an easy person to track, he had been drifting for too long, searching for an inner peace he would never find. Undeterred I returned a few days afterwards to the park, to the same unfortified place, sure that if the mysterious boy needed me, he would come.

Certain enough a little time passed before I smelt the noxious aroma I had the displeasure of smelling on my last visit. Steadily I turned round, and there, right next to me, was John. Not bothering with niceties I bluntly asked "how the hell do you know me?". I was surprised by his reply, "I'm John Watson, I have known you for a long time, you have a pure soul, akin to my own, and you know me better than you think."

His comments disturbed me, and not just because of his knowledge of my inner emotions, no, the thing that made my blood curdle, was his unwavering confidence that I would help him, whatever the cost. And so I sat, looking stoically into the piercing blue eyes of a girl who was neither real nor unreal, who seemed to know my every thought, and who made my voice come alive from somewhere within me and say, "How do I help you?"

That night, I went to the library, I needed to find some information on John Watson, where was he from, what did he do, who were his family, where did he live, and why did he always seem to drift aimlessly, falling into place here and there, like the human embodiment of the transient autumn leaves? I was shocked at what I found. His name was John Watson, mother's maiden name, Blake; his father was dead, killed in action whilst serving in the Fusiliers. At that point John Watson was 19, and this was the surprising bit, his birthday was 1954, it was now 1993. Convinced this news paper article was wrong, I read on. The John I knew was almost my age; that had to be a typo.

And then I came to the next article down.

SCHOOLBOY JOHN WATSON: MISSING FOR 2 WEEKS, POLICE LAUNCH URGENT APPEAL.

And the next one.

MISSING SCHOOLBOY: 2 MONTHS ON. ASSUMED DEAD.

And suddenly, I knew. John couldn't be here, he couldn't be who I thought he was, and I realised then, that whatever he wanted from me, I couldn't save him, he was already gone.


End file.
